Lemon bird free of company’s crowded line, no garrulous chirps to break your peace.
Neither solitude nor small size preclude you from standing as cynosure at ease.
Pulveratrixes down play in sand while wind, sun, and rain suffice grooming your grace.
Your image so slight in eye’s corner sparks hope and strength from an ultramundane place. : )
Even cynosure’s need a break, turning green envy away from the self and towards an escape inside.
Mind replays garrulous talk of heard surface likes, barren of sincere notes which with the heart could confide.
Forming serene scenes requests accepting points which grate and, as a pulveratrix, shaking them away.
What eyes see in light off self is not true as real for the soul is ultramundane peace drawn from the fray. : )